


When He Died (Except Morbidity Is For Goth Kids)

by Theeniebean



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Existentialism, Just a few blips in Kenny's life, M/M, POV First Person, lots of thinking and very little else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29281995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theeniebean/pseuds/Theeniebean
Summary: Just a splotch of internal monologuing. Why get too deep when you have so much further to fall? It's simultaneously everything and nothing.
Relationships: Kyle Broflovski/Kenny McCormick
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	When He Died (Except Morbidity Is For Goth Kids)

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written in a while, so I don't actually know what this is. There could be more? I dunno.

The thing about nightmares is that you eventually wake up from them. That sincere foreboding, that primal fear that encapsulates your guts eventually dissipates, and, while it might take a few deep breaths upon waking, you do settle back down into the humdrum rhythm of waking life.

The sight of the claptrap ceiling when I wake up isn't necessarily an end to my nightmares - just a reprieve. Just a rest stop. The eye of the storm of the nightmares that --

I crumple the page and toss it toward the trash can. It misses; well, moreso rolls off the mountain of used tissues and other wrappers and onto the floor. Save the emo shit for the Goth Kids, or Stan on a particularly annoying, philosophical day - the sort of day where he's plagued by dark haired demons with too many life goals. Wendy really needs to give him a break.

\---

"Didn't you even try to do the writing assignment?" Kyle asks, shutting his locker, shouldering his pristine backpack. It had his initials embroidered onto it, some ritzy gift from his parents that had gotten him a bunch of teasing for the first few days of school. Meanwhile, my labors of love held my backpack together with thread and patches. "It wasn't even a tough assignment." 

Rolling his eyes at my nonchalant shrug, the closest I'll give to an answer, we stroll down the linoleum-lined hallway. It was largely empty now, most of the population having sped out as the first tone of the bell erupted.

"You'll never graduate if you keep skipping the homework, Kenny." 

I shrug again. "C's get degrees, dude." And I wasn't aiming much higher than shift supervisor at the new crafts store that had come to town two months ago. A lifetime of mending my own pants and making costumes had been endearing enough to the owner to clinch the interview without even having to bust out the flirty eyes. They'd even put me in at the huge reams of fabric, letting my deft hands make old grannys' dreams come true. And soon, I could rule over my fellow high school part-timers, as well as Derek, the shitboat 40 year old who acted too high and mighty with his scrapbook and laminator. 

"Yeah, but don't you want to get out of here? Go somewhere new? If it's about Karen--" He cuts me off when I open my mouth to retort; we've done this enough to know the script. "Dude, you know you could easily get guardianship and bail together."

Hip-checking the exit doors open, I walk backwards into the bright blue afternoon. "And take her away from all her friends? No dice." The late winter breeze is refreshing. ""Could you do that to Ike?"

Kyle scoffs. "He's already in college, the little smart ass, he couldn't give two shits about friends - but," He exhales. "Yeah, I get what you mean." 

I do a little twirl and fire finger guns at him as he unlocks his sensible, used car, slipping onto the passenger seat. I've got my heels kicked up on the dashboard by the time he tosses his sack in the backseat. "But for real Ken, there's more to life than worrying about other people, even if they're family. Sometimes, you gotta-" 

I crank the volume knob, letting the tunes from Kyle's plugged-in iPod carry the conversation for me. Staring right into his eyes, I sing. I sing loudly, unblinking. It's the game of chicken, and I might be the only real contestant, but damn if I don't intend to win. 

I keep at it even as he shifts into drive and rolls out of the parking lot. 

\---

The three of us - Stan, Kyle, and myself - sprawl all over Stan's bedroom. I'm favoring the 'on the back, with my legs kicked up against the bed' position, because goodness knows I can't interrupt super best friend leg mingling. Digital football encompasses us, Kyle and I against the Quarterback Extraordinaire. We somehow always lose, but it's not the game that's important. Kyle's upside down eyes shine whenever I gaze up into them from the depths, always considering rising to meet them, and always, always hearing Craig's instruction to shit or get off the pot - 

It's better he's out of reach, anyway.

\---

Bleeding out in a gutter was nothing new. The rain spattering against my face, the amplified pulsing of my heart as it gushes out the sticky red - annoying, mostly, now. Painful, yes; but adding a notch in my bedpost of pain tolerance. Can't even go bowling without being bowled over - 

Waking up to text messages asking why I bailed is the most annoying part. I didn't bail, I wouldn't bail - well, unless Eric was shitting out his mouth again, but Kyle would have beaten him with a pin, and that in upon itself was worth staying for - but they always thought I did. It's lame. Like I'd waste the money of the shoe rental just to bounce for no reason. 

The bedside table houses my parents' confiscated weed, and I idle myself with rolling a joint as I wait for Kyle's response. It's hanging loose between my lips when my phone buzzes - 

'We were winning until you left, I don't get it.'

I feel my face pull the grimace before my brain catches up. I don't have a reply, so I lay back and let the smoke rings guide my attention instead.

\---

His mouth against mine makes things click into place, but sometimes it still hurts to breathe, knowing he'll always think I've abandoned him at the worst times. I wish--

But wishing is lame. Wishing fixes nothing. My hands hold what they can, gripping against everything until it, him, eventually slips through my grasp. 

One day, he'll get sick of me leaving him, and I'll be back to square one. 

It would be easier if I didn't have to exist in my own wake. At least then I could call myself a bastard when he and Stan commiserate about their love lives.

\---

Dragged down into a portal, a swirling vortex of colors I can't even comprehend. I shatter into pieces and entire entities, whole within themselves. Kenny is lost. Kenny is found. I grip at the fading tendrils, their endlessly blue and red and purple and I-don't-even-know-the-colors-anymore seeping into my fingerprints, etching the chaos into my skin. I can't fall further, not yet; the fear grounds me, weighs me down, dragging me back to where I belong. 

If I let go know, I'll know too much, and I'll never claw back from that.

I don't belong there among them, but I make myself believe I can stay.

\---

Kyle's lap is warm, his shoulder heaven. He whines under my weight, but I'm all bones and know he's just bullshitting. His fingertips graze my lips as he feeds me bits of my bologna sandwich, all the while insisting he could bring me something more substantial. 

I nibble on his earlobe instead, grinning as the guys complain about the gaiety. I don't have to think here, just act. Just exist


End file.
